Impossibly Shown
by WhiteDahlia13
Summary: 5 times Lydia showed Stiles she loved him without ever uttering the words, and the first time she finally said those three words. Because Stiles paid attention, he listened, he remembered. Stiles POV. Stydia is endgame.
1. Set the World Alight

There are things you wish for in life, impossible things. Even though you are sometimes painfully aware that they are unattainable, you still work out a 10-year plan in which to attain them. My impossible thing was getting Lydia Martin, the girl I have loved since the third grade, to fall in love with me. We basically grew up together, but I was not exactly on her radar, so to speak. People fall in love all the time though, right? They get to know each other, things change, feelings change. So, why was this match so impossible, you ask? There's a simple answer to that question. I, Mieczyslaw Stilinski (please, let's skip the part where I explain all about the origin of my Polish first name and how to pronounce it…just Google it, then go ahead and forget it if you like, because everyone calls me Stiles anyway) …Where was I? Oh yeah, it was impossible because I, Stiles, I'm…well…me, and Lydia is Perfection come to walk the earth, if for no other reason than to show the rest of us that yes, she really does exist.

Impossible is a word that seems to come up a great deal in my life. For example, it was impossible that I would drag my best friend, Scott McCall, out one night for an ill-advised excursion into the woods…to look for a dead body. (Yup, I know…I watched _Stand by Me_ one too many times.) It was impossible that such a morose act of teenage rebellion would result in him being bitten by a werewolf. But I did…and Scott was…and he is a werewolf now. That is an impossibly long story. For another time… It was impossible that I would spend any time on the field during an actual lacrosse game – because according to Coach, I suck…but slightly less than Greenberg…which is apparently good enough to get me into a game…so I played…and on one very terrifying…and equally memorable night, I even scored the winning goal – in the championship game. My dad was there, and he was so proud. And Lydia was there, and when she smiled at me…the _way_ she smiled at me…well, I have never been able to put into words what that felt like…other than to say it made me feel incredibly alive. It was impossible that Lydia would ever notice me. But she did, and in the middle of the life-altering, supernatural roller coaster of death and torment that we call our lives, Lydia and I got to really know each other, we became the best of friends, and amazingly enough, she fell as deeply for me as I did for her. So maybe impossible is a great deal more possible than most people anticipate, and maybe that's not _always_ a bad thing.

Back to my Lydia. What makes her so perfect? Simply put – everything. Every. Single. Thing – and all the things put together to create the masterpiece that is Lydia Martin. But there is little I enjoy more than singing the praises of my girlfriend, my love, my partner in every sense of the word, so let me begin by telling you that Lydia is a force of nature. I kid you not, this woman can get angry quicker than anyone I have ever known, but she softens just as quickly with the people she loves. She's going to be sore that I started out by describing her temper, but in my defense, it's one of the many things I love about her – because it reflects her passion and it means she cares. Lydia cares a great deal…and if you are lucky enough to be one of the people she cares about, as I am, then there is nothing she won't do for you and no limits to her understanding and defense of you. Plus, that fiery passion of hers, is also what sparks her desire for a challenge. Maybe that's why she was willing to take me on, because I'm fully conscious that being with me is a challenge. I am stubborn, I talk too much, and I'm chronically anxious…at times to the point of hyper-vigilance. I can hardly sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. Honestly, I don't know how she puts up with me. There's the constant fidgeting, tapping, and pacing…except…somehow Lydia manages to still me. I told you she is amazing. For whatever the reason, she decided to trust me, Stiles, with her heart, and as a result, I am the luckiest and the most grateful you-know-what on the planet.

Lydia is something. This is a girl with a special affinity for her Papillon, named Prada (yes, like the designer handbags), the music of a British artist, named Gabrielle Aplin, flowers of all kinds (especially lilacs), and the color she chose for her bedroom walls…which I call purple, but she insists is called boysenberry. This is a girl who eats raisins with a fork and meticulously peels the wrapper from a peanut butter cup like it is an art form. She can pull her hair into one of those topknots without the use of a mirror and have it look perfect every single time. She's also super creative; she designed her bedroom, she paints, and she sketches. This is a girl who, on a nightly basis, methodically selects her clothing for the next day from a closet-full of floral printed dresses, sweaters, and high heeled boots. (It doesn't matter what she wears though, she looks perfect in everything.) Then, if necessity calls for it, you might find her running through the woods in that same outfit…without missing a step…unless it happens to trigger an animal trap. (Long story with a happy ending.) But all of this…it barely scratches the surface of who Lydia truly is.

Beyond all that, Lydia is a walking, talking, breathing contradiction – and I love her for it. She is petite, but her presence can subdue an entire room full of people. She has a short-stride, but always manages to stay two steps ahead of me. She is highly opinionated, but incomprehensibly open-minded. She has limited patience with herself, but unlimited amounts when it comes to weaving her hair into some intricately designed braid…and a stockpile more patience left on reserve for me. She has a selfish streak when it comes to my attention (you'll get no complaints from me on this front), but she is completely selfless when it comes to giving me everything she has. She is incredibly strong and though she hates to admit it, incredibly vulnerable too. This is a girl who drips with self-confidence when it comes to her intelligence or her fashion sense, but in regard to expressing her feelings or accepting love, well…then she is suddenly shy and unassuming. It pains her to ask for help, but she gives help willingly…no matter what it costs her. She hates for people to see her cry (except for me…and I'm glad for that because it means she trusts me, and damn, she's even beautiful when she cries), but she always offers the people she loves a shoulder to lean on. She can freeze me into stillness with a stare or melt me with a smile. The power of her voice is unmatched. This is a girl who can softly sing me to sleep when I have nightmares, but who can obliterate steel doors…and the occasional Ghost Rider with the strength of that same voice. Lydia also has a supernatural ability to make one of your worst moments simultaneously one of the best. Like maybe by turning a panic attack into an impossible dream come true…for example. Outside this room she is one of the bravest people I've ever seen, but in the quiet of this room, when it's just us, she hesitantly but just as bravely reveals fears I didn't know were possible. She is clever and witty, yet as a general rule, her reserved nature typically only permits silent laughter. I may be the only person who can get an unrestrained, genuine laugh out of her, and I don't take that lightly. Oh…and there is no possible way I'm sharing any of my methods with anyone…ever. That is strictly between us.

Did I mention that she's a genius? Seriously, the woman is brilliant! She can calculate ridiculous sums in her head in the time it takes most people to re-read the equation. She can read and speak at least eight languages (besides English), including French, Spanish, Italian, Polish, Greek, Hebrew, Hindi, oh yeah…and archaic Latin for good measure. Oh, and by the way, she's currently studying Gaelic in her free time. She considers her molecular biology and advanced physics textbooks to be light reading. On top of that, she can remember pretty much everything she has ever read, which is a extremely useful skill to be in possession of…you know…in case you need to know to mix a Molotov cocktail – because you are locked inside your high school, in the middle of the night…with a homicidal Alpha werewolf.

I'd be remiss if I didn't at least attempt to explain how remarkable Lydia is, physically. Lydia is beautiful…no, she's gorgeous…better yet, she's breathtaking. The kind of beauty that people write songs about. I'm talking about talented musicians, not anyone like me. Nope, I definitely don't have an entire notebook filled with love songs I've been writing about her since the third grade. Crap, if she reads this, I'm done for because she will find that notebook…unless I destroy the evidence first. (Don't worry, Lydia. I'm just kidding. I would never do that to you.) Actually, I hope she does read this someday because its easier for me to express how I feel about her in writing. When I look at her – look into eyes that can basically dissolve the insides right out of me – it can be difficult to speak. In her presence, getting my brain to communicate with both my vocal chords and my mouth to form coherent sentences is a challenge. The thoughts that so naturally flow in my mind, get tangled up…and what comes out usually pales in comparison to how I really feel. Back to my point. The point being that Lydia is breathtakingly beautiful, stunning, gorgeous…you know…all the words. Picture a petite, porcelain-skinned goddess with full pouty lips. (For the love of god! Those lips!) Lips that can stop (or start) a panic attack. Trust me, I know from experience. Her green eyes are the most perfect shade ever created, all flecked with gold and shaded with thousands of long lashes. I've counted them, there are literally thousands of them. Her skin is flawless, and her sweet little nose is sprinkled with freckles. The sides of her perfect mouth are framed with two insanely adorable dimples, which I get to see more than most. (I am so freaking lucky…and grateful. Did I mention grateful?) Then there's her hair. The only way to describe it is: strawberry-blonde perfection. It's waist length, and impossibly soft and smooth. No matter what she does to it, her hair always looks beautiful, but my absolute favorite is when she leaves it down, cascading all around her…softly curled ends I can wrap around my fingertips…the rest of it blowing in the breeze like strands of copper silk. (That was rather poetic of me…I think I'll hang onto that one, store it for later use.) I could run my hands through Lydia's hair all day long and surprisingly enough, I think she would let me. It seems to relax her in a way not often seen – the same way I relax when she touches my face or puts her hand over my heart. It's pretty amazing to have that kind of effect on each other. I could go on about her looks, but I think I've proved my case and honestly, the rest of the things I love about her appearance are between us.

Earlier, I mentioned that I have loved my Lydia since we were in the third grade. I remind her of this often, not because I want to make her feel badly for being behind the curve (for once in her life), but because I need her to know that I can hardly remember a time when I was not in love with her. If you are a skeptic, like me, then your eyes probably rolled the minute they passed over the words "the third grade". How can an eight-year-old boy know he has found the love of his life? Well, it's the truth. I'm not sure how I knew, but I do know when I knew. I can pinpoint the exact moment. The moment when, by some twist of fate, Lydia gifted me with one of the best moments of my life, during one of the worst times I can remember – because she has the ability to always know exactly what I need to hear…and when I need to hear it.

It was my first day back to school after my mom died. For two weeks before that day, and several months before that, while my mom was suffering the most, I was fumbling around in the dark; a bundle of anxiety and dread, a kid who dreaded tomorrow…because tomorrow could be the day mom leaves. When she died, people who cared about me tried to comfort me, but the fact of the matter is that their words rang hollow. _Your mom will always be with you_ , they said. I didn't believe them. They were my family, my friends. They were obligated to say things like that. Mom was still gone, and she wasn't coming back. So, it was my first day back to school, and I was alone on the playground that afternoon, waiting for Scott to get out of detention. Scott. My best friend, who got detention for falling asleep in class and for not having his homework…because he spent the previous night trying to help me gather the nerve to show up, to start my "new normal" – the part of my life I was going to have to live without my mom. As I sat there with a cloud of sadness lingering over my head, poking at the ground with a broken twig, missing my mom, and feeling guilty about Scott, an angelic eight-year-old Lydia caught my eye for what had to be the millionth time. It was to be expected – she was the smartest and prettiest girl I had ever known, and I really liked looking at her. What I didn't expect was that she would return my gaze and make her way over to me. _What was happening?_ This was not the natural order. I thought that she must be headed towards someone behind me. I looked back. There was no one there. I didn't even have time to wipe the tears from my eyes before she stopped in front of me. Beautiful and direct as ever, she spoke to me: _I'm sorry you're sad. I know you miss your mom...and that everything is different now...and it's not fair. But she was special, and she's_ _a part of you, and that will never change._ In truth, what Lydia said wasn't all that different from what other people had been telling me. But there was something in _the way_ she said it that made me believe it. I heard those words andmiraculously, the sun came out again. My heart skipped beats, my throat went dry, and I barely managed to squeak out a thank you before she turned and walked away, taking the sunshine along with her. _So, this is what it's like to love a girl,_ I realized. I knew – _that day, that moment_ – I would never feel the same about anyone else, and I made up my mind that I was going to be there for her, if ever she needed someone. Even then, Lydia was pretty independent, so it didn't often appear that she needed or wanted help from anyone…least of all me. But sometimes, when she thought no one was looking at her, I would catch a glimpse of sadness in her eyes. The kind that made my stomach hurt. I wanted to make that go away, and I was wiling to do anything to be _for her_ what she was (and still is) for me. I had no clue how to get her attention…but girls liked boys who treated them nicely… Right? And maybe I wouldn't always be awkward (still waiting for that change to take place). So maybe, if I was as kind to Lydia as she had been to me that day, she would see what she meant to me. Then maybe, _just maybe,_ she might come to love me. I knew it wouldn't happen overnight. She was too special, too perfect for it to be easy. But no matter how long it took, I knew she would be worth it. Lydia gave me something to hope for again, and for years, the mere thought of this simple exchange has brought me a peace like no other.

Nearly eight years came and went, and with each one it seemed more impossible that Lydia was going to fall for me. After sophomore year, I reevaluated my 10-year plan. It might take 15 years...but the plan was definitely still in motion. Yup, much more realistic. Took loads of self-inflicted pressure off my back. The good news was that by then, Lydia and I were friends. Not one-sided, all-in-my-head, Stiles-get-a-grip-all-she-said-was-hello friends. _Real friends._ We were, give each-other-a-ride-to-school, study-together, free-period-together, texting (not sexting…get your mind out of the gutter), talk-about-our-troubles (and we had plenty of those to go around) friends. I could speak to her without making a complete fool of myself, a solid 90…okay 80…alright 70 percent of the time. I stopped tripping over my own two feet every time she looked at me. I even felt comfortable enough to direct frustration at her when she was being impossible – she is adorable when she is being impossible, but still extremely irritating.

By junior year, things changed even more. Gradually (maybe so much that I didn't notice it was happening) Lydia's feelings for me were changing. How do I know? Well, there is the obvious, she told me so, but…that came later. Before she told me, there were moments when I thought she might be falling for me and others when I was as sure of it as my love for her. It was a subtle shift, something in the way she spoke to me, or looked at me, or touched me. Something that expressed the fact that I was as important to her as she was to me. For the most part, I convinced myself that I was mistaken, that I wanted it to be true too badly for my own good. But deep down, there was this glimmer of hope that just would not let go of the possibility of us. The same hope she handed me that day on the playground. The same one that crept back in, during times I least expected it.

Lydia hasn't had it easy. She has lost a lot of people she loved, and she's been treated badly by some of those same people. It's made it difficult for her to trust her own judgement and even more difficult for her to open up. There were times I would see her begin to let her guard down…usually when it was just the two of us. Almost immediately though, she would freeze up as if she caught herself doing something wrong, and all of her defenses would be built back up even stronger than they were before. I wanted to be a safe place for her, did everything I could think of to show her it was okay to let me in – that I would never intentionally hurt her. Sometimes it made her push further away and other times it drew her closer. To anyone else, it would appear like she was purposely sending me mixed signals. But I know Lydia, and she has a pure heart; she would never do that. The push and pull had become a habit for her – and if anyone understands how difficult it can be to break a habit…it's me. So, I tried to pay more attention, listened harder, remembered as much as possible. And then it hit me – while I was waiting for her to say the words, she was showing me, in the best way she was able and in ways I didn't anticipate – Lydia was showing me that she loved me. Because for as much as I know about her, I didn't always know this: Lydia's love has a quiet voice. But if you really look at her, you will see it clear as day. That brings me to the next part of the story, the five times Lydia showed me she loved me without ever uttering the words.


	2. Unspoken Connection

It takes Lydia exactly **five** seconds to stop one of my most severe panic attacks. These episodes are not new to me. They have been happening ever since my mom was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia, which is terminal. Facing death as such a young age will do a number of unpleasant things to a kid…like force you to grow up too fast, take away your sense of security, and make you hate yourself for not behaving better. For one such as myself – already a bit of a live wire, always on edge – panic attacks are pretty much unavoidable after a gut punch like that. So, when you've already lost your mom and now your dad – the guy you have relied on your entire life, the one whom you let down and disappoint on a regular basis, but who still loves you – your dad has been kidnapped by a psychotic, dark Druid with a penchant for human sacrifice (and by the way, who also posed as your English teacher), and you realize that by tomorrow you might be an orphan, well then, you have a panic attack.

I feel it coming on as soon as I read the text from Isaac explaining that Chris Argent, the third and final guardian Jennifer Blake wants as a sacrifice, has been taken. All of the classic symptoms creep in – the head-spinning terror, trembling hands, sweating, chest pain, trouble breathing, and the complete inability to control any of it – but Lydia is with me, and she immediately knows something is wrong. Once I tell her what is happening, she pulls me aside and into the locker room. The next thing I know, we are sitting on the floor as I'm clutching my chest and gasping for air. It is one of the few times I see her unsure of herself.

 _"Just try and think about something else, anything else."_

 _"Like what?"_

 _"Uh, happy things. Good things. Uh…friends, family."_

I'm sure I make an incredulous sort of face in response.

 _"Oh, I mean... not family. Okay, uh, just...try and slow your breathing."_

 _"I can't. I can't."_

She takes my face in her dainty hands. They are cold (as always) but I like it because her thumbs are soothing the fire as she grazes them back and forth over my cheekbones.

 _"Shh, shh. Stiles, look at me. Shh, look at me. Shh, Stiles."_

And then her lips are on mine and my mind is blown. There isn't a thought in my head except: _Lydia is kissing me!_ Then for reasons still unknown, I begin to count. By the time I get to five, the pain is gone, the dizziness has passed, and my heart rate is back to normal. For the remaining six, impossibly glorious seconds, I kiss her back – and it's one of the greatest moments of my life. Her impossibly perfect pink lips are soft and taste like the peach lip gloss she always wears, her cute little nose is smashed against mine, and her eyelashes are tickling my skin. _Is this what dying feels like?_ I wonder… _Because if it is, this is not so bad._

I immediately feel the lack of her when her lips break contact, but she lets her forehead linger against mine for a few extra seconds and it reassures me. When she pulls away, I open my eyes. I notice it takes her a bit longer to do the same and I'm not prepared for what I see when she does. Her eyes are wide and shining with tears that don't fall, she's pursing her lips in that adorable way she does when she's nervous, and she is as flushed as I must be. This is an important detail because Lydia Martin does not blush…or at least she didn't used to. She says it's all my fault that she hasn't been able to stop this recurring response since that day. The knowledge of that alone is enough to send me into another panic attack. Anyway, the look on her face just then, is the first glimmer of hope I've had in a long time…and it's like the third grade all over again. I'm in the middle of one of the darkest times of my life, but Lydia makes the sun come out for me because I think…maybe, _just maybe_ it is possible that she feels something more for me than friendship. Although she hasn't said a word, it's as if her heart is whispering to me.

 _*I hear it in your heart_

I love her so much that the aching in my chest returns. And my hands, they never stopped trembling, but I'm pretty sure that is more to do with the remarkable strawberry-blonde sitting in front of me, and not another panic attack. If I wasn't already on the ground I might have dropped to my knees in front of her and handed her my heart, right then and there.

 _*It's yours for you to take_

It's always been hers anyway. But I don't want to scare her, so I manage to gather enough control to ask…

 _"How'd you do that?"_

What I'm really asking is how in the world did you manage to slow my heart rate? Because generally speaking, the mere thought of Lydia, even right now, causes the opposite to happen.

 _"I, uh... I read once that...holding your breath could stop a panic attack. So…when I kissed you... you held your breath."_

 _"I did?"_

 _"Yeah. You did. "_

What I really want to say is: _I love you, and you are the best thing that ever happened to me_ , but I settle for…

 _"That's really smart."_

Five minutes before my panic attack, if anyone would have told me that the feeling of Lydia's lips on mine would slow my heart rate and steady my breathing, I would told them it was impossible. But that is part of her beauty. Lydia has the power to excite and to still me…sometimes simultaneously…and that is a pretty amazing feat.

* * *

The next time Lydia shows me her love, our faces are **four** inches apart. You know how you can sort of feel someone looking at you? Well, when Lydia is looking at me, I not only sense her eyes on me – they basically scorch right through me. There are times when that is her intention, you know…like when she's frustrated with me. That's when she gives me the burning eyes of death (intimidating, but totally hot). But then there are times she thinks I don't notice that her eyes are locked on me and I still definitely do. This was one of those times.

We are in my room. Lydia is lying across my bed. She's already kicked off her shoes and she's got her gorgeous face propped up on her palms. I'm hovering over a somewhat obsessive-looking spread that is plastered to the wall – newspaper clippings, photos, and notes – all connected to the latest nightmare that is plaguing Beacon Hills. The light in my room is dim but her green eyes are gleaming at me from where I stand, six or seven feet away. I turn around; hoping she hasn't noticed that my face is flushed. A few months ago, we studied _The Great Gatsby_ in English class, and I can't help but draw a connection between the infamous green light and Lydia's eyes. They are calling out to me and I'm trying to stay calm, but there's this tugging sensation around my heart that I can't ignore. I quickly glance at her again as I reach to pick up some red string. Her shoulders are draped with her hair. It is so long that the strands trail down her arms and pool around her elbows. _Barrow, Barrow, think about finding Barrow_ , I remind myself _._ It's not working, so I jab my upper arm with the marker I'm holding, but my weak attempt at aversion therapy is useless. She is impossibly beautiful, and I am quite possibly a massive wreck because _Lydia is in my bed_. I can literally _feel_ her looking at me. I'm tense, as usual, and her stare makes me more nervous, so I start pacing the floor and tapping the marker I've been clutching in my hand just to release the pent-up energy. I know she understands my hyperactive tendencies, but I also know I must be driving her crazy. She is probably dying to tell me to quit it, but Lydia is sweeter than most people understand, and she won't do that right now – not when it's just us, and she knows how important it is that I _figure this out_ …as soon as possible. So, instead she tries to free me from the loop of compulsion I am stuck inside by asking a question.

 _"What do the different colored strings mean?"_

 _"Oh, just different stages of the investigation. So green is solved, yellow is to be determined, blue's just pretty."_

 _"What does red mean? "_

 _"Unsolved."_

 _"You only have red on the board."_

 _"Yes, I'm aware. Thank you."_

The words come out more harshly than I intend. I immediately feel remorse. Lydia isn't easily insulted, but the last thing I ever want to do is hurt her. I can't help my tone this time. My love for her is ripping me apart at the seams. There she is…in my bed, looking at me with her hypnotic emerald eyes…and her lips are all pouty and stained with cherry red lipstick…and all I want to do is cross the room, pick her up, cover her with kisses, and tell her that she hung the moon and the stars. But I'm not the guy who does that. I'm Stiles – which means I keep my head down and my mouth shut…again, even though it seems like she is calling out for me to come closer.

 _"Did you get detention for pulling the alarm?"_ she asks.

 _"Yep. Every day this week. It's okay though. We were onto something."_

 _"Even though we couldn't find any proof of Barrow being there?"_

I know her well enough to know she is hurting right now. _Is that guilt I hear in her voice?_ I don't want her to feel that way. I can't stay put any longer. I move towards the bed and kneel in front of her. We are so close, and Lydia is looking up at me with a vulnerability that I'm positive she doesn't allow anyone else to see. She's winding a length of red string around her finger so tightly that she's cutting off her circulation. I have to touch her. I reach out and still her hands, then carefully unravel the string. Maybe I think it will help her open up to me.

 _"Hey, Lydia. You've been right every time something like this has happened, okay? So, don't start doubting yourself now."_

I have no idea if this is helping her, but she means the world to me and I have to at least try – because seeing Lydia suffering is worse than any of my own pain.

 _"No scent. No bomb. And I got you in trouble," she continues._

And that's when I get it.

 _*I sense it in your voice_

Something in the way her voice lowers to a whisper and the way it trembles over the words makes me think that deep inside, she is right there with me. Lydia loves me too and she is worried that I might be upset with her or that she hurt me. I want to tell her that everything is okay. That it's impossible for me to ever be angry with her, because I love her that much. Something else is stopping me though – fear. Fear of painfully mortifying rejection, fear of losing the friendship we have so carefully built because I impulsively crossed a line, or maybe even fear of acceptance…then what? (Uh…I dunno…maybe the feeling of complete bliss that comes with being in a healthy and fulfilling relationship. Seems like a really stupid question now.) So, rather than bare my soul to this girl who makes me implicitly aware that I am alive...by causing my heart to pound so loudly that I can hear it; the girl who makes me want to be a better person every time she touches my hand; the girl who makes me want to get out of bed in the morning – no matter how bad things are – just to see her; the girl who only has to smile at me to make me feel like every awful thing that has happened to us has been worth it because it brought us closer…rather than saying what I feel, I say…

 _"Okay, look. Barrow was there. All right? You knew it. You felt it. Okay?"_

And I substitute "I love you" with…

 _"And look, if you wanted to, I'd go back to that school right now and search all night just to prove it."  
_

…so at least she might know that I would literally go anywhere _with her_ and do anything _for her_. It's all I think I'm ready to say, and all I think Lydia is ready to hear. I say it instead of I love you, because the only thing that equals my love for her, is my desire not to mess this up.

* * *

 _No matter what I do, I keep failing her._

 _I can't live without her._

 _I love her._

These are the **three** thoughts that are running through my mind when Lydia stops breathing. I'm pretty sure her heart stopped too because of the look on Scott's face. I know he is listening for it, but he _has_ to be wrong. Maybe it's just so quiet that even _he_ can't hear it.

I shake my head. No. It's not possible. It can't be true. I won't give up on her. Not now. Not when I just got her back. After weeks in that nightmare asylum of insanity and death, otherwise known as Eichen House, she is with me again. She can't leave me now. Not when I haven't told her yet. I am pleading with her to just _show me her eyes_. Tears – my tears – are spilling all over her face. I can't stop them. I don't even try. I don't care about anything but getting her to wake up for me. It's been too long already and I'm begging at this point, but _Lydia has to live._ It can't end like this. It can't.

 _"Lydia, you have to open your eyes."_

Miraculously, after what seems like hours but could only have been seconds, she does. I almost lost her – again – but she takes in a sharp breath and I do the same, and my heart that stopped with hers…it can start again. My love. _My Lydia._ Her hand is gripping mine with every ounce of strength she has, she's smiling through tears that could be hers, or mine, or both of ours, and her beautiful emerald eyes are gazing back at me. There it is again. The thought that yes, Lydia loves me too, enters into my mind. She hasn't said a word, but the emotion is radiating from her eyes – more powerfully than I have ever seen it. Her love is presenting itself to me slowly and deliberately, and it is ready to take up permanent residence in my heart.

 _*It's shining through your eyes_

When I ask, she nods that she's okay. Scott and I carefully help her sit up. Her mom calls out to her from the doorway and Lydia turns to look at her. I step back to give them space, but I can't… _I won't_ take my eyes off Lydia. Not again. I let her out of my sight before. That left the door open for Theo to hurt her…and that is why she ended up in Eichen House. I let her down. But I will never make that mistake again, because it's Lydia…and she is everything.

While her mother is holding her, Lydia's eyes are locked on me. Then she says three words I was not expecting to hear.

 _"Stiles saved me."_

I wasn't alone, of course – it was all of us, the whole pack – but the fact that Lydia says that _I_ saved her takes my breath away, because she may have used three different words, but what I'm hearing is "I love him". Even if it's not what she intended, the words "Stiles saved me" have the same impact…perhaps even more so, because all I have ever wanted to do is save her the way she saved me when we were eight years old. There is another detail that stands out in this moment. Something major has shifted because Lydia said those three words in front of Scott, her mother, and Deaton…and knowing how carefully she tries to guard her emotions makes her declaration even more momentous for me.

Lydia and I have been through a ridiculous amount of trauma in a few months' time. Honestly, we never get a break from the insanity we call life here in Beacon Hills. I think I should be tired and angry at the cruelty of it all, but all I feel is grateful and all I am is in love. I am breathing the same air she is breathing. I can actually feel the heaviness being lifted from my shoulders every time she inhales. I feel alive again. While Lydia was in Eichen House, I was fumbling around in the dark…just like the eight-year-old version of myself. But here she is, waking me up and brightening my world with her impossibly beautiful light; a light that came so close to burning out. I can't even consider what that would have meant. Devastated is a word I've used in the past, but it doesn't seem to cover it anymore. It's not even a question of whether or not I can live without Lydia. We are so inextricably linked, that one of us without the other is only half of a lost soul…and that's not living at all. And though my impossible hope for us seems a great deal more possible these days, I realize that I would set it aside if it could save her life. Even if she never returns my feelings, I would love her anyway and simply be thankful for her presence. I just need to know that Lydia is alive, and well, and happy. I just need her to be here…I just need her to keep breathing for me.

* * *

The **two** of us are standing outside the school. Lydia is the only person who still remembers me. I know I am going to be taken by Ghost Riders and now she knows it too. It's dark. The wind is gusting fallen leaves in every direction and whipping her long hair and floral dress all around her. She is more frightened than I have ever seen her.

 _"Stiles, if you can see them…they're gonna..."_

My instinct to protect her is kicking in. I cup her face in my hands to steady us both. I don't want her to be scared. I don't want her to be taken either. I can't fail her this time. I'm terrified too. Not just because of what is about to happen…but because, fool that I am, I still haven't told her yet. _What is wrong with me?_ Yes, I know…I'm an idiot.

 _"I know. I know. Okay…they're coming for me, so you have to get away from me right now. Okay?"_

 _"I'm not leaving you!"_

The statement passes her lips with complete determination and without any hesitation. She's clinging to me so tightly and her eyes are glistening. Her face is stricken with emotion…and it all clicks into place.

 _*You know there's something more_

She loves me. _I know it._ Lydia not only loves me, but she's ready to hear me say how I have felt for so long. Even more amazingly, I'm finally ready to say it. Except now, there is so much to say and so little time. In the most impossible setting, at the most impossible time, all of the doubts in my mind are suddenly gone. Over wind that is rushing through my ears and thunder that literally seems to be crashing the world down around us, all I can hear is the sound of our hearts – hers calling out for me to stay, and mine answering back that I would never leave her if I had the choice.

Running is pointless; we are surrounded. We end up in my Jeep and now I have my chance. Do I waste more time trying to drive away? I know the Ghost Riders won't stop until they have me and if there is even the slightest possible chance that Lydia could be hurt in the process, I will not risk it. I look at her and she stills me. It's not just that I _see_ how scared she is, I can _feel_ it too. It sends paralyzing pain through my chest, yet my desire to protect her propels me forward. I decide to use what little time we have left in a better way. She needs me right now and I can do this one last thing for her. I can push aside my fear to be calm for her. I can tell her how I feel…before it really is too late. So, I take a breath and the words come pouring out. It is so easy that I surprise myself.

 _"Just try to find some way to remember me. Okay?_

 _Remember how you were the first girl I ever danced with?_

 _Or how I had a crush on you freshmen year…sophomore year…junior year…_

 _Remember how you saved my life."_

 _"You saved my life too."_

 _"Just remember…remember I love you."_

And just like that, I am torn away from _my Lydia_ and I don't know if I will ever see her again. Despite how much I ache for her, I feel hopeful. For one thing, she held onto her memories of me for as long as possible and that says a great deal about our connection. For another, I'm glad that my last memory will be of her. And most of all, I finally told her. If she wasn't sure before, she knows that I love her now, and even though she didn't say it back, I know she loves me too – it was written all over her beautiful face. I will never doubt the possibility of us again. And maybe, _just maybe_ , that will make all the difference.

* * *

 **One** voice. That's what it takes to bring me back. I'm standing on the platform of a phantom train station surrounded by countless forgotten faces. Forgotten – like mine. I've been trying to escape this impossible nightmare for…I don't know how long…days…weeks…months… _please_ , don't let it be months. My only accomplishment was a while back. I was able to contact Lydia and Scott through a broken-down ham radio (another long story which involves Peter Hale, so let's not go there). It only worked for a minute or so – but I got to hear _her_ voice, I got to hear _Scott's voice_. _I miss them both so much it hurts._ The connection was poor, but at least they sort of knew who I am, and _Lydia remembers that I love her_. I don't know what that means to her without the rest of her memories, but she knows I love her and that means a hell of a lot to me. Right now, the others are all around me, murmuring and pushing towards the tunnels. Something is happening. It's then that I hear her.

 _"Stiles…"_

 _"Lydia?"_

 _"Stiles…"_

The sound of her voice cuts through the dim and heads straight for my heart like an arrow.

 _"Stiles…look at me."_

Where is she? Is she here? How? Did I fail her again?

 _"Lydia…Lydia, wait!"_

The sound of a gunshot startles me. There is a lot going on at once. Ghost Riders are bringing more people in – and _my dad_ is one of them. I'm relieved to see him, but his presence means that now the two of us are stuck here. Not good. I'm moving closer to him, but I can still hear Lydia and it sounds like she is in the opposite direction.

 _"Stiles…"_

 _"Dad, I can hear Lydia. I think...I think I can get to her. I think she can get us out of here."_

He tells me to go to her – to go without him. He has to be kidding! I feel like I'm being split apart. I don't want to leave my dad, but he insists, and if I don't get to Lydia soon, _I'm literally going to go out of my freaking mind_. Dad is telling me it's alright, that we will find each other again and I want to believe he's right. I take one more look at him, he's smiling. It's okay to go.

I've seen what happens if you try to break out of here. I should be scared, but I'm not. Lydia's voice is calling me home and it's the most beautiful sound I have ever heard. I follow her voice – I take the leap.

 _"When I kissed you…"_

She's not only telling me she loves me, she's telling me how long it's been since she was sure of it.

 _"When I kissed you…"_

She has loved me all this time. I wasn't imagining it. It was real.

 _"When **I** kissed you…"_

She's waiting for me, making the sun come out again to show me the way. The light is blinding, and the energy of the portal is pushing me back, but Lydia's voice is pulling me forward. I've felt this pull before, the connection we have, the emotional tether. This is what's making it possible for me to go home. This is what will bring me back to my love.

I keep going. We have already been separated for far too long and I would follow her anywhere.

 _*I'll follow all the way to the sun._

* * *

Inspiration: The Sun by Frida Sundemo (featured in episode 06x10, Riders on the Storm)br /

All lyrics are italicized and marked with an *.


	3. The Words

In truth, between all the I love yous – some said, others understood – there has been a great deal of heartache. There have been hurt feelings, complications, and regrets. There has been bickering, an impossible amount of hoping, and more missed opportunities than I thought I could stand. Seriously, I could kick myself now for each of the instances I've described…because we've talked about it, and Lydia was with me – the feelings were there…every single time. All of that time, we could have been together. It hurts to know it now, but maybe it doesn't matter as much as you would think. What really matters is that when Lydia and I, when _we_ , finally get it right – it is more than worth it. And now, we are never letting go.

The night she brought me back is exhausting to say the least, but it is also one of the best nights of my life. After everything, there is no way we are going to be separated any longer, we know it…and frankly, everyone else knows it too. _We have to be alone._ She drives me home in my beloved Jeep (I missed her too, but not nearly as much as I missed Lydia). It makes sense that we are here – in the place where I told her I loved her _with words_ for the very first time. I am in my head the entire time, trying to process what just happened. I don't remember anything about the ride home except that Lydia's fingers are intertwined with mine. Then my memory is blank again, until we cross the threshold of my bedroom.

As soon as I close the door behind us, Lydia kicks off her boots. It's such an ordinary thing, something she always does whenever she enters my room, but for me it is both comforting and significant. In here, she is _my Lydia_. The Lydia that doesn't care that she is small. The Lydia that relaxes because she knows she is safe. The version of herself that she shows to me, but who only makes cameo appearances for the rest of the world. My love pauses for a moment, then she closes the very small distance between us. She wraps her arms around me and rests her head in the center of my chest. I know exactly what she is doing – she wants to hear my heartbeat. It's something she still does, frequently…and every time she does, it melts me – same as it did that night. After a minute or so, she pulls away and looks up at me. It is another of the rare times I see her unsure of herself.

"Can I?" she asks in a whisper.

I don't know how, but I know what she means. I nod my head. She hesitantly begins to push my red plaid shirt over my shoulders, never taking her eyes off mine. She's impossibly close and her familiar scent fills my consciousness; vanilla and flowers – more comfort. I'm in layers, as per usual, so next she reaches for my faded black tee shirt and glides it upwards and over my head. If it's possible to be nervous and calm at the same time, that is the only way I can describe this sensation. Lydia drops the shirt behind me and stills herself again, before smoothing my disheveled hair back into place. Then she moves her hands to my shoulders, and I grasp her waist to keep mine from shaking. She delicately kisses my chest, then her ear finds its place over my heart once more. I don't have words for what this feels like or what it means to me. All I know is that when her body starts trembling as she cries, my heart is breaking and fusing back together simultaneously.

"I'm here…we're together," is all I can manage to say…over and over.

I think I'm trying to convince us both. My hands are unstable from the moment they let go of her waist, until they make contact with her face – her beautiful face, that is stained with both of our tears and I don't know how to make it stop, so I kiss her. Her lips are as soft as they were a few hours ago and they taste salty from all the tears. I kiss her over and over again, until we both stop crying and she smiles against my mouth.

Lydia takes my hand and tows me towards the bed. Reaching for me, she says, "We don't have to. I know you're tired. I just…I _need_ to be close to you."

 _We don't have to_ – those words are completely empty. We both know it. We've waited long enough, and this is just the breath before the leap.

She starts to unbutton her jumper with one hand, keeping the other over my heart. She is slow moving because she's not using her dominant hand, and she purses her lips, patiently waiting for me to assist. Once my brain catches up, I oblige with unsteady hands that make her smile timidly at me. I get a glimpse of her dimples and it relaxes me a bit more. I push the fabric over her shoulders, then she shimmies out of it and peels off her tights. And just like that, Lydia is standing in front of me in her dark blue (she'd call it sapphire) floral bra and lace underwear. It strikes me that I am touching parts of her skin that I never have before – it's both thrilling and terrifying. _Am I dreaming?_ She undoes my belt and helps me out of my pants; her hand still glued to my chest and mine to the small of her back, both of us working with one hand so as not to break contact with each other. I glance back and forth between the floor and her; self-conscious and afraid to be a disappointment, but at the same time unable to look away from her for more than a few seconds – I've already spent far too much time without her in view. She deliberately grazes her palms over my chest and down my torso, taking her time and letting them come to rest near my waistband. I don't need a mirror to know that I'm blushing. My stomach tenses and I bite my lip to keep from moaning, but she smiles softly.

" _Finally_ …definitely worth the wait though," she says with a sigh. I'm about to close my eyes, but she stops me. "Stiles, look at me." I comply, even though it scares me. It's not in my DNA to deny Lydia anything. "Hey, it's alright. You don't have to feel shy with me. You're perfect. Stiles, you are perfect, and I have _never_ wanted anyone as much as I want you." She tucks in her plump bottom lip and closes her eyes like she's trying to memorize what she sees and feels. Then she takes my hand and places it over her heart, so I can feel how fast it is beating. Just like mine. "See what you do to me?" she asks, dotting the corner of my mouth with a kiss and nudging me backwards to the bed. "This… _this_ is all you."

It's no secret that Lydia makes me weak in the knees, so I sit – it's either that or I fall. I can't take my eyes off of her. She's so damn gorgeous it makes my eyes sting. She touches my face and I'm putty in her hands. I latch on to her wrists, pressing kisses into her palms that I hope convey how precious she is to me. It must work, because her eyebrow is arched a mile high and tears are pouring over her lashes. I wrap her arms around my neck and drag her into my lap, marveling at how effortlessly we fit together. A sound gets caught in her throat. It's somewhere between a hum and a moan, and I can feel her tiny body trembling from its very core. It finally registers with me that I have the same effect on her that she has on me. There is one question on my mind right now: _How is this possible?_ It's quickly followed by a response: _Love._ She touches her lips to my forehead and kisses my flushed face. Then the two of us crawl into the safety of my bed where we cling to each other, never breaking eye contact. It's quiet for a few minutes before she speaks to me. Her voice is soft and low, but her words are clear.

"Stiles, I need to tell you."

I open my mouth to stop her. I don't want her to feel like she has to say the words because I already know how she feels and I can wait until she is ready.

She keeps me from interrupting, touching her index finger to my lips. "I know that I don't have to, but I _want_ to…I _need_ to say it for both of us. I need _you_ to hear the words, and _I_ need to know that I said them…because there have been so many times I wanted to, and I didn't. And when you were gone…I thought you knew…but when I remembered that I had never said the actual words…it killed me." She takes a deep breath. "Stiles, I love you…in a way that I have never loved anyone – with my whole heart. When they took you from me…I couldn't picture your face or remember any of the things we did together, but I could hear your voice in my dreams every night. I knew that you loved me, I remembered how you made me feel…and that was as real to me as holding you right now. The love I have for you – it _never_ left. It was like I could feel you everywhere I went, only I couldn't see you, I couldn't talk to you, I couldn't touch you. It was the worst pain I've ever experienced. Without you here…I was lost…I couldn't breathe…I was only half alive. Getting you back changed all that. It was so dark, but you made the sun come out again. I love you. I _love_ you. And I'm so sorry that I made you unsure of it. I tried to show you…but it's like my body wouldn't let me."

Once again, I'm blown away. Do I have to even try to explain what her words – words I've been dreaming of hearing for years (plus a few others I only dared to hope for) – do I have to explain what they are doing to me? Nah…I think they speak for themselves. All I know is…the list of impossible things in my life is getting shorter by the second.


	4. Holding Fast and Letting Go

After Lydia gives me one of the greatest moments of my life, by telling me she loves me, we pass words back and forth between kisses. All the things we've wanted to say but withheld, are tumbling from our lips. I tell her that I knew she loved me – that she showed me over and over again, and it makes her smile. She tells me that she knew I loved her – even before I said it, and that I saved her life more times and in more ways than she can count, and I couldn't possibly be happier.

Unfortunately, there is an unwanted presence in the room – fear. It's making us speak quickly, as though we won't have time to say everything we so desperately want to express. It's making us afraid to blink, as if the other will have disappeared when our eyes reopen. But then Lydia touches my hand, which is still over her heart, and the world slows down for us. We let go of the breath we've been holding, give into the impossible desire we have for each other, and take the leap together. And it is perfect.

* * *

 _Lydia is real_ and as impossible as it would have sounded a few years ago, she is here, with me – where she belongs. We are in my room, as usual. Not long ago, she told me that she feels safer here than in her own home. That admission tugged my heart in opposite directions. In one sense, knowing that I, or that this place brings her happiness, security, and peace…well, that's the greatest gift. Above anything, that is what I want for her because she has the same effect on me. In another sense, it makes me incredibly sad, because she _should_ feel safe in her own home. I understand why she doesn't, but I want her to; I want Lydia to feel safe everywhere and I'm going to make it my life's work to make her as happy as possible, no matter where she is.

Right now, it's just after midnight. The bedroom is shadowed and dark, but the sky is clear and the moon is so bright that it makes her emerald eyes glow for me. I love Lydia at night. There is an ease about her in those late hours – her night voice sweet, and soft, and low; she's sleepy-eyed, freckles-bared, smiles often, and I can't take my eyes off her. Her breaths are deeper and fuller. She's less guarded in the evening, after she has shed the careful façade she wears as a shield all day, finally allowing herself to relax. This is the time when she whispers confessions she wouldn't necessarily admit in the exposing light of day. It's as if the darkness provides just enough cover for her to comfortably open up. She's lying next to me in her floral pajamas (yes, even her PJs are floral), halo of strawberry-blonde waves splayed across my pillow, inviting me to play with them. My hands inevitably find their way to her hair, so I can twirl the ends around my fingertips and watch as she smiles…unreservedly revealing those dimples that I love so much. Her scent is calling out to me – lingering notes of vanilla from her perfume, mixed with the seaberry body wash and some kind of raspberry infused shampoo she just used, and I dunno…something uniquely…Lydia. It's unreal how good she smells. As a bonus, she is always cold at night, so she snuggles as close as possible. I have no complaints about that. Being close enough to Lydia as to where I can feel her breath in my face, is the best part of my existence. We face each other as we lie on the bed and for some reason, that is powerfully significant to me. It means we are partners – we are equals in this relationship. It's so impossibly good that I feel like I need to count my fingers to make sure I'm not dreaming. She's got one hand on my heart and the other tracing the moles on my face and neck – markings which I used to hate, but now I'm extremely grateful for – because the feeling of her fingertips playing connect-the-dots over them is magic. Drowsily, she plants kisses along my jaw with her impossibly perfect pink lips, showing me that she loves me with every hallowed one – and I adore her more that I even thought possible yesterday. She drifts to sleep in my arms, all the while whispering "I love you" in each of the languages she knows (I love you, Je t'aime, Te amo, Ti amo, kocham Cię, Se agapó, Ani ohevet otkha, Mai tumhe bahut pyaar karti hunn, still can't remember that archaic Latin one, Tá mé i ngrá leat). She can't say it enough and I can't hear it enough. There is no possible way a day could end any better than this. The best thing I ever did in my life was fall impossibly in love with Lydia Martin.


End file.
